Crafting the Perfect Hero
by Ingredient X
Summary: After Fenris walks out on Hawke he finds closure in helping Varric capture what makes Hawke so... Hawke. / Series of drabbles of Fenris coming to terms.
1. Chapter 1

In retrospect, he had had a lot of wine. Fenris felt himself sway a bit as he tried to focus. Varric had rolled unceremoniously onto his back where he lay on the floor in front of the fireplace. Fenris suspected this was because he had taken the seat at the dwarf's desk, but neither had commented on it. The already mildly grubby parchment Varric had been examining was now hoisted above his face. Though it was illuminated adequately by the fire light, the dwarf still squinted at it. His brow furrowed.

Varric had invited him over many times but offering free wine seemed to be the key. It was cheap wine. Nothing like the reserve at Danarius', no, _Fenris_' mansion. Tonight they sat in silence as Fenris downed more wine than healthy and Varric worked furiously on his novels. It was more cathartic than he had expected. The elf hadn't left the aforementioned estate since… well. _Since_.

"Hey. Broody." Varric's voice thankfully cut the train of thought short.

Fenris scowled. Half was just for the sake of it. He did not mind the nickname so much as he would've have minded admitting such. He did not respond, but that did not seem to matter to the dwarf. He took a long pull of the wine.

"I need some writing advice." Varric looked at him quite seriously.

"I don't do a whole lot of _reading_," Fenris said, but there was no bitterness in his voice. His illiteracy was no secret lately. He'd actually improved significantly and could now recognize several letters without prompting. In more time he could probably... He shook his head free of the thought. He didn't want to know what he could've done with more time. It was best not to. Despite believing the request to be genuine, Fenris had no real desire to discuss anything. Merrill had tried her best to wheedle something out of him earlier that morning and he was so tired. So very, very tired. He took another pull of wine. "Besides, I hardly suspect my advice would prove useful."

"Bullshit. You know the most about the subject matter," Varric countered. "And you don't lie. A terrible habit, but it might be helpful for brainstorming."

"Brainstr—Brainstorming?" Fenris pushed through the word trying for all his might to pretend the wine hadn't slurred the first attempt. Varric was polite enough not to comment.

"_Hawke_, Broody. I need to know more about Hawke."

Fenris fell silent. His gaze dropped to the wine bottle in his hand. Half an hour ago he had been drinking from a glass. He wasn't sure when the transition happened but there he was drinking cheap wine out of a bottle. He was a mess. Isabela had offered to sleep with him—a genuine offer of comfort, but one he couldn't stomach. It would be a week now since he had walked out on Hawke. Varric was trying to comfort him. Or get a story out of him. Probably both. Either way, the words just wouldn't form. It wasn't that he didn't have anything to say. He couldn't fathom how he had been able to do it and hadn't even approached why the hell he had wanted to. The hollow look in her eyes told him with absolute clarity that this was something he couldn't take back. He couldn't bring himself to speak. He wasn't ready.

"Ah, shit." Varric's voice was gentler now. He rambled onwards with wild hand gestures,"I didn't mean… I just was trying to introduce her, you know? Love the woman, but she can be a bit of an asshole. I just wanted to introduce her in a way that was... I don't know. Thought it might help. You know what? Forget it. Terrible question. Let's change the subject: would you rather eat a live nug or dine with Anders?"

Fenris was still staring at the wine bottle. He twisted his face up in a squished scowl briefly in an attempt to clear his mind and expression then carefully returned to impassive slate. The elf placed the bottle back on the desk next to the empty wine glass. He did his best imitation of a smile.

"The live nug. Obviously."

...

Her eyes were cold. It should not have been the most remarkable, or even the most noticeable part about her. The twin daggers clenched fiercely at her sides drenched in no meager amount of blood shone brightly in the dimly lit alienage. She had long grey-white dreads tied back loosely behind a rounder face with full lips and eyes like thunder. Beautiful wasn't the right word. She looked like a tempest that was barely contained. With the way she looked ready to unleash on him, he wasn't sure if she was a friend or foe. _Deadly._ Deadly was the word. Her companions kept a short distance behind their leader as their glances flitted between each other, the woman and himself. Strangely, they did not fear her. This woman coated from dreads to boots in the bile of her enemies seemed to have earned nothing but respect. It was himself they seemed wary of. To be fair he had just pulled a man's heart from his chest, but it still seemed like a glaring mistake to assume Fenris was more of a threat than the predator standing before him. In all his assessment she had not once broken her gaze. There was no friendliness to the way she approached but he did not flinch from where he stood. Running was no longer an option.

In one smooth motion, she lifted one of those bloody daggers slowly to his neck. Had he not decided earlier that night to no longer fear death he may have shied away. But he did not. He could phase through it and snatch her heart. It would not have been difficult, but she didn't press the metal to his skin. It may not have been intended as a respect or kindness but it was the closest to it that he had received in the past months. She bored into him with those eyes, unrelenting and unforgiving. He stared back impassively.

"Will you put my friends in further danger?"

Her voice did not quaver nor did it reach him with great volume. Her eyes remained attached to his. She wasn't bluffing. He blinked once, twice. A woman with her dagger to his neck was asking if he was a threat _on behalf of her companions_? Obviously he could not put her friends in further danger if she slit his throat then and there. She surely must know that. But she still _asked_. Fenris frowned at her and the dagger. She did not waiver. He took a calculated risk.

"I apologize," The dagger did not move. "When I asked Anso to provide a distraction, I had no idea they'd be so… numerous."

At that the dagger tilted just slightly. The tip edged closer to the flesh under his chin. Her eyes narrowed slightly then briefly flashed back to the sympathetic woman behind her in long robes. _A mage._ She snapped her attention back to him. "You were responsible for this?"

"I am the reason you are here, yes," He let a little of his irritation slip into his voice. He continued, "These men were Imperial Bounty Hunters here to reclaim lost property. Namely, myself."

"Oh. Slavers. Glad they're dead, then," she said. The dagger dropped quickly and her eyes softened just slightly. The predator he had faced a moment prior was gone like the threat had never existed. Had Fenris worried for her safety (which he most certainly did not), he would have chastised her for trusting him so easy. For no other reason, especially not fearing her, he decided that in this instance picking a fight with a bloodsoaked stranger to be poor idea. She seemed to be relieved despite his obviously remaining discomfort around her. Her shoulders slouched and she waved at her equally relieved looking companions to indicate safety. When she extended her hand to him, he flinched backwards expecting knife. The suspect hand, though still wearing a thick coat of various vital fluids, was being offered peacefully. The incredulous look he threw her was met with impassive ease. He met her bloodied hand with his own and kept his eyes firmly on hers. The thunder was still there. She offered him a crooked smile he wasn't sure if he could reciprocate safely.

"Nice to meet you. I'm Hawke."


	2. Chapter 2

"You know you should really take Varric's advice." Isabela said over the top of her mug. The frothy beer sloshing all over the place was a strong indication of how drunk she was. A sober Isabela would've been extremely disappointed in the loss of booze. Fenris stared glumly at the spill. He wasn't even buzzed, and not for lack of trying. The liquor was a sad combination of extremely watered down and not-very-potent. It was Isabela's fault. She'd told the barkeep that he didn't need to be drunk tonight. He hadn't seen her do it, but he was sure she did. Irritably, he realized he didn't even have the energy to pick a fight.

"I will be fine without your assistance, Isabela." He said coldly, gesturing to the bartender for something else. Anything else. Isabela looked concerned.

"That's not what I meant, sweet thing," and she paused taking another long swig of her beer. He stared jealously. He wanted to be that drunk. She winked at him. "You'll find a new ship to sail soon enough. I can even help you touch up your _rudder_, if you wanted. Maybe polish your mast?"

Fenris smiled at that. To Isabela's credit, it was only a little bit forced.

"What kind of ship are you in the market for anyway?" Isabela pressed onwards. She was fully aware of this being a touchy subject, he knew. She just didn't seem to care tonight. Or was perhaps drunk enough to try her luck again. "I personally like something you can grab. Something… juicy."

He felt the scowl forming before he could do anything to stop it. "I am not in the market," he grumbled, "for a _new ship_."

She studied him closely. The amber of her eyes seemed sharper in bar light. There were no winks, no showing of cleavage. For a split second the pirate captain looked stone cold sober. Her long tan arm brought the mug from where it rested on her hip slowly back up to the bar and smashed the glass into the counter. No glass broke, but most of the remaining beer ended up on Isabela's shirt and boots. For a second she looked upset but very quickly transitioned to a full bodied laugh. Her shoulders shook and she held her sides like she couldn't stop even if she wanted to. The shirt she wore was soaked through the front and the men and women that had been hovering nearby nearly injured themselves trying to get a better look. This only seemed to make her laugh harder.

He wanted very badly to laugh with her. Hell, he wanted to _want_ her. Maybe it would be easier if he did. If he went through with it just the once and used her as some sort of leverage to get over Hawke. His heart pounded painfully even from thinking the name. The smile had long since left his face and he was back to staring sadly at his own mug. He wasn't fit for company like this.

Without another word, he dropped a few coins on the counter and politely pushed the stool back into place. He offered a short nod to Isabela and turned away quickly before she could protest. The night air outside The Hanged Man hit him like a stone wall. The nearby salt water spray made the humidity so thick that it almost felt like rain. But without the heat of the day the moisture made the cold bitter. Without his armour it bit into his skin without mercy. Something warm and tan and slick slipped around his arm. He looked to his side and found Isabela looking back at him. She radiated warmth in a way that he missed terribly. He used to be able to do that.

"Don't give me those sad puppy eyes," She chastised him with a grin. He gave a frustrated huff, grumbled something about there not being any puppy eyes, and let her lead him around Lowtown. It wasn't like he was doing anything else that evening anyway. If she was determined to be "supportive" around his unabashed sulking then that was her problem.

For a long time they walked in silence. Her arm looped through his was never a pressure, only a gentle guide. He could feel the breeze in the way they swayed down the streets. She walked as if she expected to be swept away at any moment; lightly, but surefooted. Fenris had lost track of all the twists and turns they'd taken over uneven cobbling and shady looking terracing. He remembered fights with bandits where he wasn't sure if he was going to live the night. He'd kill seven and eight more would rush out of the darkness. Without fail, their tiny band of friends would slash their way through. It was foolhardy.

"Look." Isabela came to an abrupt halt. In front of them was the harbor. There was an enormous ship with sails aflutter and billowing in the breeze. From the distance they looked silken. The moonlight played off the deck and glistened like the water surrounding it. The wooden sides had been scrubbed clear of barnacles until they shined. He could practically feel Isabela's heart racing.

"We could leave tonight, you know," she said. "Steal away on board that beauty and tear the crew limb from limb in the morning. A good fight and a free boat. I've had my eye on that one for a while. What do you say?"

Fenris snorted but Isabela's gaze didn't waiver. The longing in her eyes was real. She looked at the boat like it was the last barrel of clean water in the whole city. She swallowed hard, then with great effort, looked back at him. She spoke softly, "I'm serious. Why not? It's right there."

He stared back at her. Despite there being nothing sexual or romantic about the proposition, it was intimate. She was asking him honestly. He frowned, "I can't."

"Sure you can," she countered easily. "Hop in, no one notices, kill everyone at dawn. New boat for Isabela. I went over this."

"Fine," he said. "I won't."

"Now that," She tapped a finger on his shoulder, "is a much more important reason. Why not?"

He was half expecting the question, but was not expecting to take it seriously. She was right. He could leave. He could do it tonight and never look back. Someday he might even find happiness in that life. Somewhere on the ocean on a ship with good company was not a bad life at all. It was a better one that he had ever hoped possible before his escape. He would gladly set sail to never see land again if it meant he would never hear speak of another magister for the rest of his life. Hope surged in his gut and willed him to move but his feet remained stubbornly stuck to the moldy earth of Lowtown.

"Is this why you brought me here?" He asked. "To show me all the options I will never take?"

"Oh don't get gloomy on me," Isabela chastised. "You don't have to steal a boat to find closure. Though you must admit it would be fun."

"Isabela—"

"Hush, sweet thing, I'm being insightful." She nodded out towards the harbor and the beautiful vessel docked so close to them. "That's a ticket out. It's an easy one, too. But you won't take it. Fine, that's fair, but why? What more could you possibly want?"

Fenris looked at her stunned. She shrugged and sighed. "See," she said, "this is why I don't often try to be insightful."

He offered a small smile but stared very pointedly at the ground. She'd hit closer to home that he was quite ready to admit. By the way she pulled her arm away and shuffled oh so closer to the docks he could tell she felt guilty. He was about to speak when she turned around again. The fire in her eyes was just as sharp as it had been at The Hanged Man.

"Listen," she said. "I can't tell you what you want. But once you know what it is, promise that you'll at least try to… you know."

"I know," he responded gently. She nodded and looked back at the boat wistfully. He took a few steps forward to stand even with her and asked, "So why do you stay, then? What does the pirate want?"

At that, Isabela grinned. "I want a bigger boat."

….

"What do you want?"

The mound of corpses was growing taller and taller as Bethany and Varric hoisted each of their victims from the fight prior onto the pile. It was a gruesome task, but they'd promised Aveline no more forgotten bodies behind barrels and rubble. Finding corpses weeks later was infinitely less pleasant than dealing with them initially. In return, she offered a blind eye to Hawke's… antics.

"Hey! _Fenris!_ What do you want?" Hawke's voice shook him out of his reverie. His eyebrows shot up close to his hairline.

"In… general?" he asked. She laughed and threw a satchel at him. Like her, it was covered in what was alarmingly becoming a normal amount of blood. He held it away from his armour. Spikes were hard enough to polish as is.

"No, asshole. What do you want from the loot? Dead guys don't have a whole lot of use for material good anymore. So… What do you call dibs on?" Brutality aside, her jabbing seemed to be good natured. He hoped. He honestly wasn't sure. She bent down and rustled through the pockets of an exceptionally split in two carta member. He felt a twinge of pride. Finding something apparently good, she flung it in his direction. The satchel hit the floor with a thud and he found himself holding a very moldy scarf with plenty of holes in it.

"I know it's a bit dirty—"

"A _bit_?"

"—but if you wash it up, I'm sure it'll be fine."

"Hawke, this does not require washing. This should be burned."

"Besides, you've worn the same thing for two weeks. Winters in Kirkwall are harsher. You're no use to me dead."

Fenris blinked. It was a terrible compliment but it was the first one he'd ever received that wasn't barbed. It was possibly the first compliment he'd received _ever_. He wasn't even entirely sure it was a compliment. Or what to do with it. He felt deeply uncomfortable and it must have shown. She had stood back up and looked concerned.

"Please don't tell me that you killed six carta thugs only to get concussed by a scarf." She was joking, but the concern was real. She had absolutely no right to be as concerned as she was for his warmth. His eyebrows furrowed and a scowl formed easily. He was not some object to be protected or sheltered while she found his presence convenient. He was not her concern. The offending object was crumpled in his hands.

"I do not require your assistance for survival, Hawke," he said tersely.

"I didn't mean it like—"

"Like what? Like _pity_?" He snarled, holding up the scarf. "_I am not your charity case_!"

"I never said you— Where the _fuck_ are you going _now_?"

He stalked off and ignored the bewildered swearing from behind him. It was not his obligation to stack bodies and it was certainly not his obligation to wear moldy scarves. Though he couldn't have said why, the crumpled disaster was still clutched tightly in his gauntlets all the way back to Hightown.


End file.
